The District Eight Uprising
by Shnape
Summary: Fifteen year old Lucet Vale has grown up in District 8 thinking there was nothing she could do to change the outcome of her life. As the 74th annual Hunger Games begin to unfold, Lucet realizes the stranglehold the Capitol has on its districts and she hatches a plan to fight back.
1. Chapter 1

It's hard to force myself to remember I'm alive. That I'm not simply this pair of blinking eyes, working hands, and trudging feet. It's dark as I slip down the staircase of our building, the steps groan under my weight as the rusted nails are put to a test of their strength. The makeshift partitions between apartments rustle as I descend, threadbare sheets fluttering against my shoulders. It's quiet, peaceful for now, and exactly how I want to remember it.

Once I am on the street, I am immediately blasted with a mix of smells from the chemical dyes: sharp ammonia, putrid sulfur, and heady acid. I quickly pull the purple gauzy scarf around my neck up to my nose and breathe a little easier. The buildings I pass are all identical, sagging, gloomy, six story tenements some made of brick and some peeling paint down the sides. Piling my chocolate brown hair into a tight knot on my head, I make a sharp left onto the main street; it's a patchwork of cobbled stones and gray sandy dirt. The streetlamps are still out, but I know the route without question.

Appleton Street is lined with larger buildings, with concrete Corinthian columns, and giant glass windows. These are the showrooms, where the purchasers from the Capitol select the trends for the next season. Pausing briefly, I marvel at a bright, feathered headpiece; orange and red hand dyed feathers cascade up in a wave, calm yet powerful like a crackling flame. My face fills the reflection below, round, pale, youthful, with soft brown eyes; I am almost crushed beneath the weight of the fascinator.

Turning away, I know I am not meant to be that fiery bird and continue walking. I cross a bridge over the river when the looming smokestacks come into view. Black smoke billows into the night air, disappearing against the sky almost immediately. The grit and grime of the factory finds its way into everything, my hair, my clothes, under my fingernails and still I return every day. Pulling open the massive metal door, I slip inside and let the scarf fall from my face.

A yellowing clock face stares at me from the opposite wall of the brick room, the second hand thrumming. I step closer to it, and find my name in a row of worn curling time cards: Lucet Vale. Sliding it into the machine connected to the clock, I pause before I pull the lever. This will be the fifth overnight I've worked in a row and I'm not sure if the machine will let me put in any more extra hours.

The lever slides down and the machine punches my card before I place it back in line with the others. The elevator opens automatically with a ping, I have thirty seconds to get in and select my floor before the machine punches me back out and I get a flag. With a flag, you have to meet the floor boss to explain your tardiness. I've never met the floor boss and I hope to keep it that way.

I select the seventh floor and the elevator hums to life. Every year the week before the Reaping, I pick up more and more night shifts at the factory, but it beats fighting the insomnia at home. A calm woman's voice announces, "Seventh floor," and the doors slide open with another ping, quickly drowned out by the clacking machines.

Once I hit the button for the floor, my section of looms powered on and waits for me thrumming and clanging like a dog wagging its tail. I have a block of eight machines, four in front of me and four behind. Threading the shuttles, I lace the first design and set them to work. The design is a custom textile, black laced with gold brocade and covered in sequins; the illustration pops up on a computer screen that helps me set the design. The order is for Cinna, an up and coming designer in the Capitol and surprisingly, I like it. Something in the strokes of his pen – the way they translate to the fabric, makes me feel free.

The machines clack, the burning oil smell wafts into my nose; I listen as the gears flip back and forth from side to side. Tending the machines takes patience and constant watchfulness to make sure the shuttles don't get jammed and ruin the cloth or the machine. At my fourth machine, I've set up a little hub, to keep myself grounded while I'm here. The deafening din of all two hundred machines going at once has gotten to more than one of us.

There's the seashell that flew out of a train window as it passed through District 8, the only thing like it I have ever seen. Someday, I hope to go to the ocean, I've read of its vastness, no factories for miles. I wonder what it feels like to float on water, to be weightless, suspended in motion. After the shell is a golden brown feather from the only Mockingjay I've ever seen. There are no trees in District 8, not even a patch of grass, so we don't get much else than rats, stray cats, and mangy dogs. The bird sang what it heard, the din of the looms, but in its sweet voice I could barely recognize it. Lastly and most precious there was a photograph of a young girl with my eyes and dark hair, my sister Lydia. My sister was my favorite person in all of Panem, she made me smile every day.

When she was fifteen, Lydia aged out of our school and began working the looms just like I do now. Day in and day out, she came to the factory; even after working twelve hour shifts she would come home smiling, turn around and head out with her friends. I would try to keep up with them, but she and her best friend Merino were much smarter than me. At eleven, I could barely slip past my mother on the stoop of our building, let alone sneak into the Appleton showrooms and try on the clothes. Lydia though, could do anything she set her mind to.

One day when she got home from work, she locked herself in the bathroom we shared with half the building. A few hours and a few hundred complaints later, our mom coaxed her out. Something had changed; she and Merino spent every evening after at home on our stoop whispering together.

Lydia cried most nights once she got back from her shift. She thought I didn't know, but the walls that separated the bedroom from the kitchen were paper-thin. I couldn't bring myself to ask what made her feel like that, clearly so lost and so ashamed. She begged to transfer to another factory and for a while nothing came of it. Once her smooth belly started to swell with new life, she got what she wanted. She was sent to work in a milliner's shop the next week, stiffening felt and wool in large vats of chemicals.

Then the Reaping came and our lives were changed forever. It's kind of sad, I can't remember the name of the boy tribute that year; District 8 is so large and he wasn't familiar to me. Just another boy from another factory from another neighborhood with run down buildings like mine. But when they called Lydia's name – every fiber in my body seemed to stop and my heart fell making knots in my stomach. I was just a few weeks shy of eligible for the games and I wrestle with the guilt that I didn't volunteer for her – and my nephew. Had I been of age, I wonder if I would be capable of doing the noble thing, sending myself to a certain doom so that Lydia could play her chances again the next year. When I think about it for too long, my conscience is so weighed that I don't think I'll find a way back. So instead, I think about the shock on the faces of the other fifteen year olds, the pity from the adults.

As she stepped out of line her stomach barely gave away the result of something she refused to talk about. The quiet followed her as the crowds parted; her steps were solemn against the cobbled street. She made her way to the stage and the tears shimmered in her eyes.

The rest was a blur; I hugged Lydia in a records room of the Capitol building in our district and it was the last time I spoke to her. She held me close and sobbed, whispering, "I thought maybe Merino would – we talked about it, but never in a lifetime did I think one of our names would come up."

Letting go of my shoulders, Lydia took a deep shaking breath and tried to smile. With her face stained with tears and the shadow of what was to come at her stomach, she looked more vulnerable than ever.

"You'll be alright," my mother told her, "Your situation, well, people will be sympathetic. You'll have plenty of sponsors."

It looked like my mother was right, when I saw Lydia next on Caesar Flickerman's show she looked perfect. Whoever styled her played up the baby, putting her in a pale blue empire wasted gown that flowed in smooth hand sewn chiffon to her feet. Her hair was loose in a braided crown laced with ribbons made in our district. The effect was ethereal, like she was Mother Earth and she needed our protection.

Caesar's trademark toothy grin melted into a pensive frown as their interview progressed. "Lydia, final question: any regrets?"

Breathing deeply, Lydia replied, "I've made some mistakes, but I'm stronger because of them. I'm going in tomorrow with my head held high." The audience cooed; a few even wiped a tear from their eyes. Mothers hugged their children tight while I remember my mother sobbing into a hankie.

"That's right," Caesar agreed, giving Lydia's hand a squeeze, "You're going to give it all you've got."

All the sponsors in the world won't help you get through the bloodbath; once you step off those mines you're all alone. The arena that year was a barren red stony wasteland, clay crags and cliffs loomed until the horizon. Dehydration and the freezing night temperatures would kill most of the tributes that year. Without shelter and without water, anyone who ran from the Cornucopia empty handed was a goner. Lydia moved fast and snatched up a canteen, all those shifts at the factory keep you hopping from one machine to the next. But when she zeroed in on a heavy down jacket, she stumbled and hit the rock ground hard. Her hip bounced against the red clay, landing with a thud. Scrambling up, she staggered, maybe she had hit her head; it happened so fast it was hard to discern. A broad Amazonian girl from District 1 followed her, a sword laced to her hip and a whip in her hand. Lydia dropped the jacket and lurched forward, her hand automatically cradling her stomach.

She ran and I jumped up from my makeshift seat on an empty crate of bobbins. My mother refused to let anyone in our building screen the games, so we watched them on the side of a brick building in the neighborhood. Lydia was gaining speed, but she still seemed a little unbalanced. The whip shot out, catching her ankle and she went down again. When she got up this time her face was coated in blood, she stumbled, but when she managed to stay on her feet the Amazon came in close.

Lydia recoiled as the Amazon grabbed her shoulders, trying to force Lydia to the ground. Lydia pushed back and the two girls faltered, locked sparring, squeezing, pinching, and in agony. We all saw it coming before Lydia did, the spectators were on their feet shouting. My breath caught in my chest as the Amazon pushed with all of her might and Lydia toppled backwards over one of the many rock cliff faces. Her eyes went wild as she realized there was nothing to break her fall and she reached out. Latching on to the Amazon girl's hair, Lydia tried to scramble back onto the cliff, but it wasn't enough. My sister flew backwards as the Amazon went down hard on her face, seemingly unconscious.

Suddenly, the small wiry boy from District 5 appeared; he yanked the sword from the Amazon and slit her throat before he ran away into the desert. The cannon sounded and both the Amazon and my sister were gone.

My loom cracked and sputtered, bringing me back to the present. The spools of thread had run low, but the machine kept trying to weave. I hit the red emergency stop button on the top of the machine and collected the fabrics that I had managed to complete. As I pulled the empty spools off of the machine, new ones came shooting down from clear plastic tubes above; on my next shift I would receive a new design to execute.

Folding the fabric, I carried it over to the large canvas bin against the wall to send to the finishing department, down three floors. As I stared out of the window, the gray dawn began to break through the night's sky. The representatives from the Capitol would arrive in town soon and with them came the Reaping. It was that feeling of hopelessness that kept me working my fingers down to nubs, from the loss of my sister and the loss of so many, but from where I now stood, behind barred windows there was nothing anyone could do.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

By the time I leave the textile mill, the sun has started to peek out from the clouds shining pink and gold into the sky. Our neighborhood is deserted when I get back; everyone is already on the way to the Justice Building. From our corner of the district, it's an easy hour's journey. My daydream cost me a head start; taking the stairs two at a time I rushed to our apartment. Tearing through the sheet that served as the door, I found two important items. My dress, a delicate pink garment that belonged to Lydia, I threw on with no regard for how it looked. The second item, a large brass key, I pocketed, grabbed a taupe scarf for the fumes, and ran back down to the street.

Sliding the key into the padlock that secured the bulkhead to our building, I swing the heavy iron door ajar. I descend into the darkness momentarily and push out my secret weapon. The chrome fender comes out first, tarnished with age, the black tire underneath groans with disuse.

My father had found the bicycle a long, long time ago, maybe even before he and my mother were married. Back then, District 8 natives could still become floor bosses and make a decent wage. My father's old floor boss lived in a nice house on a cul-de-sac off of the west end of Appleton Street, far from the factories and mills.

There, the children could play on the stone streets, they laughed and shrieked once they got home from school instead of taking a job collecting empty bobbins on factory floors, like the rest of us. Parents could send the children to the university somewhere in the center of our district, where they could learn how to become designers, factory managers, or even teachers in the tenement schools. After a while, even the kids who went to university couldn't find good work and the Capitol eliminated many of the District 8 floor bosses in exchange for those of the Ministry of Prosperity's choosing.

I begin to peddle, the bicycle's gears squeal, grinding against one another in protest. As I pump my legs harder, the chains start to loosen and the buildings become a blur to my vision. My father's boss soon became penniless, unable to support his children at the university and unable to keep the nice house on the cul-de-sac. He had wind there was work somewhere in the northern corner of the district, building new fences to protect us from the Wilds. But movement even within such a large district could be difficult; he didn't have much of a chance to continue the life he knew.

My father always told me that his old boss came to him late at night and told him that he was going to disappear with his family, it was the only way to start over. There wasn't much left in his house, but he wanted my father to be the first to know in case he could find anything of value. The road sloped up ahead and I pedal furiously to crest the hill; pulling the scarf from my face I breathe a little easier at the higher elevation, but the smog of the mills follows me no matter where I go. The Justice Building lies ahead in the distance, sheltered on one flank by a line of low mountains, I can already see the crowds gathering; there's a dense line of Peacekeepers in crisp white uniforms separating the potential tributes from their families.

I let the bicycle take me down the hill, the wind pushing against the force of my body. My father took the bike from the nice house in the unpolluted neighborhood and just in time, too. The next day, the Ministry of Planning and Structure deemed the area the site of a new silk factory, which would cater to the newest craze in the Capitol. The residents that didn't vacate were demolished along with their homes. In a week, it was a steaming pile of brick rubble, the only remnants of the self made people of District 8 was the gleaming chrome bicycle that sat in our apartment. Too afraid to ride it in the open, my father stored it in the cellar and taught the neighborhood kids to ride in an alley two streets away.

I've heard that story enough times in my life to see it all happen before me if I close my eyes, so I know that I need to be cautious. Though the bicycle is old, tarnished, and faulty it is still a piece of contraband from a time the Capitol would rather we in District 8 all forget. A time when our own people could lift themselves up, make choices that affected the outcomes of their lives, and be free.

Hopping from the bicycle, I finish coaxing it down the hill before stowing it behind a large billboard sign. The plywood monstrosity is coated in white paint with the Capitol's crest in the foreground. The red wings fan out from the center of the abstract bird and arrows point resolutely, held in its feet. Words frame the imposing structure, "Together we achieve, above you we guide."

Beyond the billboard the road empties into a large gray cobbled square. The buildings surrounding it are impressive works of art made of granite and decorated with marble. The Justice Building, the library, the armory, and the university testing buildings loom over the square, imposing on the District 8 citizens below.

I check in wordlessly, letting a blonde Peacekeeper prick my finger to verify my DNA. "Lucet Vale," she proclaims, as if I wasn't certain of that myself, "just in time."

That comment forces my eye and I stare into her face, my heart pounding in my ears. If I try to explain and say the wrong thing, mention the bicycle I'm not really sure what will happen. Not just to me, but my father, my family, and the rest of my neighborhood. If she reports me as absent – it's like the factory, I don't know what happens and I hope to never find out.

She looks young, maybe twenty, freckles spray across the bridge of her nose. I wait, she's fresh, new at this and that could work in my favor.

"But here you are none the less," she says attempting a smile. My face contorts eyes narrow as I try to figure out her angle. "Happy Hunger Games," she states before gesturing for me to join the tribute pool.

I can't shake the girl's image as I join the other fifteen year olds in the crowd. It's easier for me to think of them all as faceless white helmets, thugs of the Capitol. I spot Lydia's old friend Merino up at the front with the eighteen year olds. She stopped coming around after Lydia died, just went back to her life as if everything was normal. Found a new group of friends in the button press factory where she worked and never sat on our stoop again. I don't really blame her for not volunteering, but to pretend like Lydia hadn't even existed didn't make sense.

The representative from the Capitol shuffles up the steps to the portico of the government building. He is old and bloated, his deep crimson waistcoat bulges at the seams and the buttons seem askew, like they've been sewn back on a few too many times and not by anyone from around here.

He walks stooped forward like his entire existence has been spent slouching in front of a desk. Gray hair curls from under his ears and promptly ends by his temples. His bulbous nose obscures a pair of thin wire frame glasses and dull gray eyes. He begins to speak, but my senses find something more interesting to occupy their time.

My eyes rest on short spiky silver hair attached to a young body, the boy seems out of place next to the other teenagers. He has bright blue eyes that watch the yearly Hunger Games film with boredom. As President Snow's voice describes the Dark Days and the pageant of honor that is the games, the boy looks far away as if he is transported. I wonder where he has gone and if it is more pleasant than here – in this square, in this district, in this world.

"Ah-hem," Benjamin Beadledom, the Capitol representative, breathes into the microphone, "if you don't mind settling down we will select the tributes for the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games."

Looking around, I wonder what exactly needs settling as everyone hones their eyes on him and the portico, more importantly the sphere of names that waits there. Beadledom plunges his hand into the sphere and reads the name clearly, "Buckram Abbis."

Silence falls before a boy steps out from the group of fourteen year olds; he is average build with tan skin and dark brown almond shaped eyes. His dark hair sweeps against his face as he takes each numb step toward the portico. The suspenders he wears are baggy and loose fitting, clearly selected in a hurry, my stomach does a somersault thinking this is the last time his family will see him in the flesh. I can't help but look away.

Before Buckram has even made his way up the steps, Beadledom is rummaging through the slips of paper, preparing to select the next name. Anything he can do to get himself out of our district faster. The dense smell in the air is pervasive even in the square and to someone from the Capitol who has never experienced such a place it burns the lungs almost instantly.

"Here we are," he says, pushing the thin glasses up his nose, "Merino McCann." It takes all of my restraint not to shout in surprise. Her blonde hair shines in the mid morning light as she joins Buckram on the stage. Her jaw is set tight, determined, but her eyes are wild with fear. When Lydia was called, it was a punch to the gut for my family and for anyone who knew her, except Merino. The last year her name was in the sphere, it stopped mattering that didn't stand up for Lydia, because the Games got her anyway. I can't help but feel a dark satisfaction that she will have to take her turn in the arena.

There stood the two District 8 tributes for the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games, small children eaten up by the massiveness of the Justice Building. "Happy Hunger Games," Beadledom muttered the required lines, "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

The crowds begin to disperse as I walk back to the spot where I hid the bicycle. The tributes have already disappeared into the Justice Building for a few moments before boarding the tribute train to the Capitol. The next time I see Merino she will be in the parade, probably in the same factory worker costume that my sister wore a few years ago. It's morbid, I know, but I wonder if either of them will make it through the first night, it's unusual for District 8 to do that well. The landscape of the arenas is usually so foreign to us here in the cities.

I spot the handlebars of the bicycle poking out from behind the billboard and I am on alert. People are passing by on their way from the Justice Building, but don't seem to notice my contraband. Why would it have moved unless someone was back there? Someone left the Reaping before it was finished.

As I guide the bicycle from its hiding spot, thick black drops spatter to the ground. Inky and smelly, they pool in iridescent puddles, it looks like the oil the mechanics use to repair the looms. Stepping curiously, my eyes follow the black river as my breath quickens. Over the Capitol's crest, obscuring the words there reads: The Capitol is not above. The odds will change.


End file.
